It's Not What You Think
by jenbachand
Summary: It's all about the build up. Grissom Sara. Mature. Thanks to the fabulous mingsmommy for the beta.


**TITLE:** It's Not What You Think.  
**AUTHOR:** jenbachand  
**PAIRING:** Grissom/Sara  
**RATING:** Mature  
**SUMMARY:** It's all about the build up.  
**DISCLAIMER:** I made no money from the writing of this fic.  
**NOTES:** This came from reading some really bad scenes, because the destination itself is never as exciting as the journey. Thanks to the always fantabulous **mingsmommy** for the beta.

CSI CSI CSI CSI CSI

Intimacy. It's not what you think.

It's not about the sex with Grissom. It's more of the expressions of love that play out in our day to day.

Oh, don't get me wrong, the sex is wonderful.

But let's be realistic, he's 51 and I'm 36. The biology of hot and sweaty, down and dirty sex every night just isn't a reality. Sure, there are drugs he could take, but we'd rather go with the natural course of things. Not that we don't have hot and sweaty sex, it's just, there are things that Griss does to compensate for the fact that I'm in my sexual prime and he isn't.

The man could give a dissertation on proper foreplay.

Hell, he could probably do a lecture circuit and make quite a bit more money than just consulting on bodies and bugs.

He usually starts while I'm doing something mundane. Washing dishes or working on laundry. Some chore where I'm standing and not paying attention to where he's at or what he's doing.

He starts at my neck…a lingering kiss at the base. A slight scrape of teeth, the soothing swipe of his tongue, lips pressed there for just so long, and finally the scrape of his stubble as he moves up to whisper in my ear.

To look at the man, to observe him, you wouldn't think he would know how to talk dirty, but then he whispers things like, "I'm going to fuck you Sara Sidle, so long and so hard you won't be able to form two words. I'm going to drive you over the edge and make you scream yourself hoarse."

Well, let me say the first time he did it I was already so turned on we didn't make it off the washing machine before I let him do exactly what he had whispered in my ear. His tone is always husky with desire and he punctuates his statement by running his tongue along the shell of my ear. That never fails to send a shiver throughout my body and I usually melt back into his grip.

Where I can feel evidence that he is interested in more than if I got the ring around the collar out or not.

By now his hands have usually traveled from my waist, under my shirt and are tracing patterns along my stomach. Just the lightest of touches, as he proceeds to kiss me from that sweet spot just below my ear down to where my neck and shoulder meet.

"Let's take this to the bedroom, Honey," or some variation on it (although the few times on the kitchen counter, major appliances, or once on the dining table have been fun but slightly uncomfortable) and he takes my hand.

We usually don't proceed directly to our bedroom though. Somewhere along the way he'll pin me against a wall and kiss me for all he's worth. His tongue twining with mine, teeth gently nipping, an occasional bump of noses or teeth depending on how vigorous we are, but always with enough passion to start a fire in my blood.

Well, keep the fire going really.

The type of top I have on decides the manner of its removal. If it's a solid blouse it, along with my bra, gets whisked off at the same time. If it's a button up, he gives little kisses as he undoes each button and the clasp of my bra. Oh, it's torture, but the exquisite kind that usually has me writhing up against the wall.

After I've been divested of half of my clothing, only then does he start to really show his expertise.

Because as all women know there is more to our breasts than just the nipple. Apparently he knows this, as well.

A genius, in all things bugs and body, Gil Grissom is a master at pleasuring me. His tongue traces the underside of each breast. He makes sure his chin or jaw, with that torturous bit of stubble, follows the same path his tongue did. It gives my senses just the right amount of contrasting input. The coolness coming from the air conditioner has my nipples already hard, and when he gently sucks a strawberry tinted peak in his lips, I can't help but whimper. He hums a little pleasure at my noise and switches nipples.

The texture of the wall scraping at my back while he scrapes his teeth across my nipple causes me to squirm as he applies more pressure, and I'll try my hardest to wrap my leg around his.

This is usually when the first orgasm of the day hits. Not the earth shattering one, but one of those start-up ones. The kind that have you panting and wanting to grind up against almost anything just to relieve some of the pressure building up in you.

Once I've caught my breath, we start our trek to the bedroom again. We may stop along the way again for a kiss or two. The man is a great kisser. And I'm not too shabby, if I do say so. The journey is half the fun after all.

Our bedroom is always cool and dark, really inviting us to curl up in the bed and participate in nocturnal activities, no matter the time. Once undressed and in the bed we kiss again. Slower this time, taking time to talk to each other through touch. A playful nip, a soothing swipe, a gentle rumble, a delighted laugh, a questioning touch, a responding sigh.

There are many ways we're intimate. Today's amorous adventure is one where his focus is solely on me. After a good amount of time spent kissing and petting, he turns me onto my side and spoons up behind me. The man has the most talented fingers I've ever come across. He starts by running those nimble digits over my abdomen, around my breasts, tweaking my nipples, back down over my belly, teasing my thighs, and finally parting my fluff.

I'm already so wet that he has not trouble lubricating his fingers. The first time we tried this, I got so frustrated with him because he wasn't in just the right spot, but once I took his hand in mine and demonstrated the correct pressure, rhythm, and location…well, don't ever let it be said he's not a quick learner.

He places just the right amount of pressure and starts a steady tempo. Kisses to my neck and ear start again, also. He's careful not to rush, and starts to back off if things get too frantic too fast. Once I start rocking my hips in time with his fingers, he gently blows in my ear, making me shiver hard. I'm gasping and panting by now, a low moaning escapes my lips as he speeds up his rubbing. He does this move that I still haven't mastered (no matter how many times I tried while he was on sabbatical) and his thumb is now keeping the pressure and action on my clit while his middle and ring finger dip into my body.

He only has to whisper to me with that wicked tongue again, "God, Sara, you're so fucking beautiful like this," to send me over the edge, my body clenching around his fingers and screaming his name as I come.

As I said, it's not about the sex with Grissom. But intimate acts, cherished touches, loving words, and being the focus of his attentions, those things are more important than any amount of sex could ever be.


End file.
